


Lovebirds

by supersoakerx



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: (just one and it's in the past), Awkward, Bad Jokes, Beer, Birthday, Car Accidents, Coffee, F/M, First Date, First Kiss, Flowers, Mentions of Death, Phone Calls & Telephones, Smiles, Tea, Time Skips, chatting, floristry, info dump, interruptions, lip biting, sad!pat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26430550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: The story of Paterson x Wifey before you're married! x
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You, Paterson x You, paterson x reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	1. Rosebuds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How you and Pat first meet.

“Come on, Marvin,” Paterson huffs, exasperated. He’s at the letterbox, pulling Marvin’s leash and trying to get him to follow.

Marvin is, well Marvin. Obstinate. Wants to go his way, so the little dog lunges forward and Pat has no choice but to turn and follow, the complete opposite direction to where he wanted to go.

 _Not even on my birthday?_ he thinks to himself, _Really, Marvin?_

Paterson walks down the quiet streets of his neighbourhood. It’s nice out, for late afternoon. The sun is glowing golden and there is a soft, cool breeze. He tries not to fall into the bus route he drives, but sometimes he can’t help it, letting his brain switch off and his feet take him wherever he ends up going. Not today, though, with the way Marvin is leading him and pulling him through every turn. “Geez, Marvin, would you please?” Pat sighs at the dog. He had _one_ thing to do today, before he went over to Donnie’s, just _one_ thing—and that was walk Marvin, who was making it ridiculously difficult.

It’s true that Pat didn’t have too much planned for his birthday, just the usual poker night at Donnie’s, but this time Doc was coming and he was bringing pizza. A small part of him, if he was honest, wished for something else, something more, just a little bit. He tried not to think of his last birthday, which was so lively and fun, it was at the bar with music and streamers and nachos… and Laura. Everyone was dancing, laughing, playing pool and having a good time.

Pat swallows thickly when he thinks of that night, of her. It was almost a year now, since she’d left him, and he had to admit it, even just to himself, he missed her.

But when he thinks about, really, did he really miss _her?_ Laura, herself? Or did he miss the _idea_ of her? Yeah, when he _really_ thinks about it, Pat misses waking up next to someone warm and beautiful, pulling them close and breathing in the smell of their hair. He misses sitting across from someone at dinner time. He misses the smell of someone else’s soap lingering in the bathroom after they’ve showered. He misses giving big bear hugs, misses giving all the different kinds of kisses he knows he can give. He misses coming home to a house full of life and light and sweetness. He misses the lilt and melody of another person’s laugh. He misses not needing to rely on himself so much, all the time, every day, misses having someone else to share the burdens of life with.

No, he doesn’t miss Laura. He misses loving someone. He misses being loved.

Pat sniffs, blinking back the hot tears that pool in his eyes.

He shrugs and sets his shoulders, sets his jaw, shaking it off, trying to keep Marvin in check all the while. Pat had plans tonight, and it would not do to spend another evening sitting on the bench in the park and staring at the waterfall, not noticing that the sun’s going down, forgetting to eat, and trudging back home too, too late.

No, as soon as he gets home from walking Marvin, Pat will to head on over to Donnie’s and enjoy his night with his friends. It was his birthday, after all, and he was trying not to be precious about it.

THUD

“Marvin! What are you-” Pat is broken from his thoughts when he hears the sound, feels the leash go slack. Marvin has run right into a little a-frame sign sitting outside a shop window. It’s a wooden frame, with a blackboard insert which has some lovely handwritten letters in different coloured chalk. It reads ‘Fresh peonies in Paterson – new florist, open today! _~Rosebuds~_ ’

Looking around, Pat didn’t realise he was in the main part of town. He bends down to check on Marvin, making sure the little dog is ok after walking into such a solid thing, but is immediately distracted by the shop window.

It’s completely full of flowers. It’s brimming, it’s stocked, it’s exploding with colour. Marvin barks and Pat tears his eyes away. Then—

“Oh no! Is he ok? She ok?”

Pat’s eyes flick up to the sound of a woman’s voice. He glances up and it’s-

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you say, brushing your hair back behind your ear and crouching down next to Marvin, giving him some gentle scratches around his chubby jowls, “I’m sorry, little buddy, I hope that didn’t hurt.” You look into the eyes of the stranger, he too crouched down on the other side of the little English Bulldog, “Is he, she, is your dog ok?” you’re genuinely concerned. The last thing you need on your first day of trading is some kind of public liability lawsuit for one of the smallest dogs on the face of the earth.

Or maybe they just look that small, next to the big broad man before you. Looking at him again, properly, he was really quite handsome, actually.

“Oh, uh,” Paterson hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you appeared before him, springing into existence almost out of thin air. His eyes followed you as your crouched down. You wore a very colourful dress, full of a bright floral print, and a pretty pink apron over the top. Your hair was loose, framing your features so effortlessly, and your eyes, your _eyes_ …

He’s enchanted.

“He’s fine. Uh, Marvin.” Pat supplies, and you nod, smiling a little. Pat, well he can’t help but smile a little too, right back at you.

“Marvin, there’s a good boy, you’re fine aren’t you, good dog,” you coo at Marvin, giving him some more scratches before glancing back up at the eyes of your handsome stranger. He was gazing at you, looking at the same time faraway and also straight through you, like he’s concentrating but also like he’s lost. His eyes are deep and brown, they look like honey, caramel, whiskey, all sweet and good things.

You clear your throat, stop yourself from staring. You smile and stand up to your full height, and Pat mirrors you. He holds out his hand and offers “I’m Paterson,” with a small half-smile.

Paterson hopes you can’t feel his heartbeat thudding in his hand. In this light, your eyes look almost glowing, your skin looks so soft and smooth, lit up from within, and your hair, your lips… your _body_. Part of him thinks you might be a dream.

You shake his hand and introduce yourself, telling him your name. His hand is so warm, and solid, and almost comically big wrapped around yours. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Paterson,” you say, and his smile grows. “Hey, you thirsty? Maybe Marvin should have some water after his little run in with my sign?”

Paterson hears your name and barely registers anything you say next. He’s replaying it, over and over in his mind, the way you said it, the way he’d say it, how pretty it was.

He pulls himself out of it when he sees you staring at him expectantly. Almost kind of, hopeful? Was he seeing that right?

Oh no, he’d completely zoned out. What was it you’d said?

“I have chilled bottles, if you like,” you say, not sure if he heard you, and you point your thumb in the direction of your shop.

“Oh uh, great, yeah. Thank you.” He says, grateful you helped him out there. You were doing something to him. Something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Something he almost couldn’t recognise. Almost.

You give him a big smile, teeth and all, and it makes his breath catch. “Great,” you say, “come on in.”

Paterson follows you in through the door of your shop. He sees you from behind, your hair flowing and how the tie of your apron cinches perfectly at your waist, and he almost stumbles over his own feet. Marvin, surprisingly, following without issue.

Immediately, as soon as he steps inside your shop, his senses are overwhelmed. It’s _beautiful_ in here.

“Oh, thanks!” he hears you call from the back. God, did he say that out loud? “Yeah I’ve been setting it up for a couple of days, almost all done.”

Lord, Pat needed to get himself in check here, or he was going to make a fool of himself. He only just met you mere minutes ago, but he knows, already, he doesn’t want to stuff anything up. He wants… he wants to see where this goes. He’s got some kind of feeling.

Paterson looks around your store, in awe. It’s cozy, but you’ve made a great use of the space. High shelves and low surfaces are stocked full of gorgeous displays and bouquets. His mind can’t even process all the colours he’s seeing, and the _smell_ of it all, the fresh flowers, the budding life, he can’t stop taking in big deep lungfuls of air. All the greats are here: peonies, as advertised. Ranunculus, hydrangea, gerbera, chrysanthemum, carnation. He spies baby’s breath, and his favourite, forget-me-nots. There’s lilies, orchids, daffodils, too. And roses. So many roses. There’s more than he can look at. This new, small space has more colour and vitality jammed into it than his whole house over the past six years!

Well now, that’s not fair of him. Not really, and he chastises himself internally. But he can’t help it. The comparison flew into his head immediately. He can’t help but compare the bleak black and white existence he lived in, for _so long_ , with the colours and smells and vibrancy of your store, of you. It’s like you’ve dropped out of nowhere, fully formed and beautiful, smiling at him with warmth and heart and joy, holding the antidote to all his pain in your soft little hands, offering it to him freely.

He wants to take it.

Your footsteps sound from the back and he turns to face you. You’ve got two bottles of water and a small plastic container. You smile at him, and he smiles back, and you crouch down and set about filling the container with water for Marvin.

You hand the other bottle to Paterson, and he takes it with a “thanks.”

“You are most welcome!” You chirp at him, happily, and he feels something bloom in his chest.

“So,” he clears his throat, trying not to sound too eager to keep talking to you. “First day today?”

“Mmhm, sure is. I’ve sold a couple of the smaller bouquets but, otherwise it’s been fairly quiet.” You’re noticing, you think for the first time, how actually very big and full this man’s lips are…

“Well, they’re beautiful… I’m not surprised people have grabbed them.” He tries, gazing down at you, his voice getting softer. The light changed in the room, the sun settling just that little bit lower, bathing your face in a soft and shimmering gold. You look like an angel to him, with the way the warm light is caressing your features. There’s a small silence, a beat and a half while you look at each other, the air shifting and changing around you.

“Thank you,” you breathe, a little quieter than normal conversation. You clear your throat and break whatever it was that was building between you. You check on Marvin, who’s lapping up the water gratefully. “So you,” you turn back to Paterson, “you’re out and about on a walk this afternoon?”

Pat nods, “And I didn’t expect to see dahlias or delphiniums on my way.” He didn’t want to talk about Marvin. He only wanted to talk about you.

“Oh,” you say, a little impressed, if you’re honest, “you know flowers?”

Paterson takes a sip of the water you gave him, nods, and shrugs. “A little. My grandfather had a garden,” he says, by way of explanation. You notice how the bottle looks so small in his big palm. You also note the “had”, that it’s likely that the garden, or Pat’s grandfather, or maybe even both, were not around anymore.

“How lovely,” you speak quietly, truthfully, “You spent a lot of time there?”

“Oh, y’know,” he shrugs again, looking away and back again, “over summers, and I lived with him for a time… he had this huge library just filled with books and,” he stops himself. He was rambling, he was getting personal, and he had to stop. He didn’t want to scare you off. “I learnt about flowers there, with him, yeah.” He gives you a small smile.

You heard him break off his words, heard him stop himself. Maybe it was too personal, too private to go into with a random woman he just met who’s sign could’ve concussed his dog.

But still, you wanted to know more from him, about him, of him. The more you looked at him the more you were entranced. His skin, his hair, his high cheekbones and uneven jaw, his strong nose. In profile he was just as attractive, too. Looking at him for too long set your heart racing.

“What was his name?” you ask, keen to get him to just keep talking, to stay.

Pat gives you another small smile. “Paterson.”

“His name was Paterson too?” a smile plays at your lips. Pat nods, opens his mouth to say more, but Marvin barks, making you break your eye contact with each other to look at the small dog.

“I uh, I better get going, actually,” Paterson says, glancing down at his watch. He still had some time but, he needed to get home soon. “I have a, small… it’s a little birthday thing, it’s nothing really.” He stumbles over his words, looking down, flicking his eyes up occasionally, all bashful.

You gasp. “Happy birthday!” you beam a big smile at him, and he feels something in him crack.

He huffs a laugh, it’s low and deep and throaty, and it flows right through you, in a way no one’s ever has before. “Thanks,” he says, giving you a big goofy toothy grin, and is that, is he? Yep, his cheeks are flushing a little bit pink.

“You got 5, birthday boy?” you ask, getting an idea.

Paterson closes his mouth, but can’t stop smiling at you. You’re looking up at him with this look, he can’t quite describe it, doesn’t know your face enough to know what this is, but it’s like what you’re saying and what you’re planning are two different things. Kind of cheeky? “Yeah, I, I’ve got 5, sure.”

“Favourite colour?” you ask, not missing a beat, taking some steps away from him, gathering your tools from the counter and placing them in your apron pocket.

“Uhh,” Paterson feels himself flushing pink, tries to stop it. “Uh, blue, like the sky. Or like, water.” One of his hands rubs at the back of his neck, and he’s looking at you sheepishly.

You smile at him. For some reason, that seemed just perfect for him. “Don’t go anywhere,” you say, and you whip around into the back room again.

Paterson hears you mucking about in the back. Things are clinging and clanking and rustling, something being snipped and jostled. He hears a small sigh and the tiniest little, “perfect” muttered quietly.

A second later you’re bounding out from the back, holding a beautiful arrangement of light and dark blue flowers with some white sprinkled in too. He recognises the hydrangeas, the bluebells, the geraniums. The delphiniums, the baby’s breath, and the white carnations. It’s lovely, really, your choices look so pretty all together like this. They’re all wrapped up in a sky-blue ribbon, tied in a pretty bow. “Happy birthday, Paterson,” you say, stopping in front of him, holding out the flowers to him with a big smile on your gorgeous face.

Paterson’s toast, completely gone. “F-for me?” he stammers out.

His eyes have lit up all sparkly and his mouth has dropped open, the corners pulling up just a little. You nod, “for you,” is all you say. Something tells you it’s all you need to say.

He can’t accept this, can he? He goes to reach a hand out to grab them, but stops. “No I, I really can’t accept th-”

“Yes you can.” You cut him off, and he stands up straighter. “Yes, you can,” you say again, firmer.

His eyes flick down to the bundle of flowers, then back up to yours. He hears your name in his head again, the way you said it so sweetly. “Thank you, (Y/N).”

Oh yes, he liked the way that sounded, the way that felt on his tongue.

You smile up at him. “You’re welcome… I’m glad you like it,” your voice dropped a little, softer and quieter. You were looking at each other again, really looking into the depths of each other’s eyes. No, stop it, you just met this man, for Heaven’s sake. “Now,” you clear your throat, “get outta here, you don’t want to be late for your party!” You settle your hands on your hips, and give him a face that’s somewhere between joking and serious.

He laughs another one of his laughs, and this time you see his Adam’s apple bobbing with it. Every new thing you discovered about this man was even more of a turn on than the last. God, you hope you’ll see him again.

Paterson is crumbling. He doesn’t know what’s come over him, but he wants to pick you up, sit you on the counter right next to the register, hold your face in his hands and taste you.

 _Christ_ , he thinks, _when can I see her again?_

Marvin barks, and you’re both reminded what needs to happen now.

You take a sigh and clasp your hands together in front of you, smiling. “It was great to meet you, Paterson. And happy birthday! Again.” You give him a little laugh.

Pat holds the beautiful bouquet you made him, the water bottle you gave him. He’s got Marvin’s leash in his other hand. He gives you a big warm smile, biting his bottom lip in his teeth, and you melt. “Yeah, thanks, and you too, (Y/N). Good luck with it all,” he gestures around your shop with his head. “See you around.”

“Bye, see you,” you give him a small smile, watch as he turns away and walks out of your store. For half a second, it looks like he won’t fit out the door, but of course he will, and of course he does. He got in here in the first place, and he’s still a man after all.

As soon as he leaves you clutch onto the counter for support. You feel almost lightheaded. That guy, Paterson, he was fucking hot, and you weren’t imagining all the looks he was giving you, right?

You start to pack up the shop for the night, your fingers feeling light and shaky.

Paterson can’t stop smelling the flowers on his walk home.

It was so, so kind of you. To make this up for him. He imagined all the different places around his house where he could put them, this sweet, blue bundle of flowers you made for him. But that was a mistake, because then he thought of you, and all the places around his house where he’d like to—

Paterson felt like his head was swimming. He felt giddy. He felt like a teenager.

And he wasn’t… he wasn’t imagining it all, right? You were smiling at him, you were gazing at him, just as much as he was at you. He was sure of it. _Sure_ of it.

He recalled your face, the twinkle in your eyes, the curve of your lips when you smiled. He remembered the swish of your hair, the sway of your dress. He remembered how you asked about his grandfather, how you said your name, how excited you were when you wished him a happy birthday, all your words flooding back to him out of sequence, with flashes of your pretty smile in between.

He takes a deep breath. It’s been long enough now, he thinks. He’s had enough of living in a dank and dark place. He feels weightless and warm, from all of ten minutes with you, and he knows it now. He feels it.

He’s ready for colour, ready for life, ready for you.


	2. All Things Sweet and Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Pat start seeing more of each other.

It’s been a week, and Paterson can’t stop thinking about you.

At his birthday party, Doc and Donnie had badgered him, kept asking him what was up. ‘What’s that big grin for?’ and ‘What’s got you looking so chuffed?’ and ‘Don’t think you can get away with this by jamming more pizza into your mouth!’

When he’d finally caved and said into the pint of beer in front of him, ‘ _I think I met someone_.’ – God, the hooting and hollering made him so red in the face, he’d flushed with hot embarrassment but he’d _laughed_ too. He’d giggled and chuckled and ran his hands through his hair, smiling as his friends cheered for him and clapped him on the back.

And now, another Saturday having rolled around, Paterson just has to try and see you again. He showers, gets dressed, skips breakfast because he’s too nervous and excited to eat, leashes Marvin, and heads downtown, braving the fresh, cool Autumn air.

As he walks, he plays it over in his mind again. He’d done this so many times, in the past week: remembering your pretty dress, your pretty face, your pretty name. How you offered him water, how you made him a bouquet, how you said his name…

Too soon and not soon enough, Pat’s coming up on Rosebuds. He slows his pace down, trying to act casual, as if he was just strolling through town early on a weekend morning.

He glances at your big shopfront window and you’re _there_ , fixing up an arrangement near the back of the display, your fingers working so gently, quickly, swapping out tools from your apron without even looking. You tuck some hair behind your ear, look the bouquet over and Pat reads your lips as you say the words, “perfect.”

Suddenly Marvin lurches ahead, forcing Pat forward. “Come on, Marvin!” Pat pleads quietly as he stumbles a little, and when he steadies himself and looks back to your window—hoping you haven’t gone anywhere—he sees you standing there, smiling at him, and your hand comes up in a little wave.

He can’t stop his face breaking out into a big grin, his Adam’s apple bobbing just the once. Pat waves back at you and he notices, you’ve got a pretty pink lipstick on that matches the pink on your nails, and you wear _another_ vibrant floral dress. Everything about you was just so, so-

You walk over to the shop door and it opens with the trill of a small tingling bell. That was new, since he’d been here last week.

You stand in the doorway, leaning against the glass door to hold it open, and you wrap your cardigan around yourself and cross your arms against the morning chill. “Good morning, Paterson!” you chirp at him brightly with a big warm smile.

Did you—did he just hear you—you remembered his name? He stammers through a greeting back to you, stuttering over your name and flitting his gaze between your eyes and the ground. He’d hoped—a lot—but he never really believed you’d remember him, and God damn it, now that he knows you do, his ears feel hot.

 _There’s that pretty pink again_ , you think to yourself. “Bit chilly today, huh?” You _gotta_ keep this man here as long as he’ll stay, you’ve been thinking about him all week. “Is little Marvin here too?”

Marvin barks out a gruff little sound hearing his name, pitches forward again and Pat stumbles to a stop right in front of you. God, he’s so damn _long_ , you’re only just taller than him even though you’re two steps higher!

“Uh-yeah, y-yeah, Marvin’s here,” Pat huffs a small chuckle, trying to regain his composure with Marvin dragging him this way and that, “and uh, little cold today, yeah. I mean I usually walk early—to work, so. But yeah no, chilly.” He puffs another chuckle at the end. _God fucking damn it_. Why was he so bad at this? It’s only the weather! He brushes back some hair that had fallen loose from Marvin tussling him around, and when he looks back at you, you’re giving him this soft smile that just _melts_ him.

“You walk to work? Gosh, I hope it’s close to home.”

 _God, you’re so pretty_. “Oh yeah, y’know, not too far. I’m a bus driver, so. I sit all day, the walk is good.” Your eyes light up and Pat just can’t stop _looking_ at you.

“You’re a bus driver? But you’re so h-young! I mean-“ you stop yourself, that wasn’t what you-not how you wanted that to come out-

Pat smiles, eyes darting from yours to the ground and back again. “Yeah no, I guess I am… young… relatively speaking,” he chuckles, and so do you, his laugh so deep and throaty it’s almost hypnotic.

A lightbulb goes off for you. “Oh! Speaking of, how was your birthday!?” _Good Lord_ , he’s flushing pink again and it’s just too much to take.

Poor Pat: you remembering his name was one thing, but you remembering his birthday, too? He swallows thickly. “Oh, yeah, it was great. Really good guys, and, pizza,” he laughs, your big, pretty smile making his heart flutter and putting him at ease all at the same time. “Your memory is uh, just great.” He feels himself staring, but he can’t stop it.

You keep your eyes locked on his, open your mouth to say something, to tell him that some things are worth remembering, but Marvin barks shrilly and whimpers, shattering the moment. The little dog jolts forward, but Pat’s prepared this time and holds the leash firm, not wanting to be dragged away from you yet. _Ever_.

“Is he cold?” you regret it immediately, fearing you might’ve just given Pat the way out of this conversation that neither of you wanted.

“Oh, I, uhm,” Pat looks Marvin over. If this dog was the reason he’d have to walk away from you right now…

At the same time as you say, “do you want to come in-for a?” Pat says, “I should probably get going-home…”

“Ah,” you bite your lip and nod slowly, “ok. Of course! I mean, Marvin’s only little.”

“I uh, yeah, only a little… dog.” Pat gazes at you, cursing himself internally, and clears his throat. “Well uh, I guess I’ll see you-“

“Next time?” “Around?”

Ah, fuck.

You each say your goodbyes, and Pat walks away, the little trill of the doorbell ringing in his ears.

**XXXX**

He rounds the corner onto Market Street, _your_ street, and his fingers tingle with anticipation.

It’s Saturday again, but it won’t be like last week, no, not at all. He’s prepared this time. _Really_ prepared.

He doesn’t go out in the cool dewy morning, where the sun shines deceptively and the air in his lungs is cold and crisp.

He doesn’t go out in the late afternoon, either. Pat doesn’t risk golden light lulling him as if into a dream, where he can make a fool of himself by trying to do something silly and romantic and foolish like, storm into your shop, cradle your beautiful face in his big hands and _kiss_ you, tell you he can’t stop thinking about you, tell you he wants you and-

No, he decides to go out at lunch time, the busiest time of the day, with a water-tight alibi in tow.

Reaching your shop, he leashes Marvin outside, brushes off his sweaty palms on the sides of his jeans, and takes a deep, steadying sigh.

The doorbell jingles as he steps inside. You were smiling and laughing and chatting with an older woman, who held two small colourful bouquets wrapped in pretty bows. Now, embraced by the warmth and the scents and the vibrant colours inside your shop, he overhears you discussing how right the time is to plant clematis, and have you smelt the jasmine variety? Just lovely, and try to get the purple, too, it’s gorgeous.

At the tingle of the bell signalling the arrival of another customer, you glance over at the door and do a double-take when you see it’s Paterson. Something in your chest does a little flip.

Paterson busies himself with looking around your shop, enjoying the lilt and melody of your voice and your laugh as you continue your conversation with the older woman. He notices, as he pretends to examine a packet of strawberry seeds, he really hears it in the steady, smooth pace of your conversation, the abundance of patience you seem to have.

He eyes up a shelving set, it’s definitely new since he was here last, and it’s chock full of a whole range of seedling packets—from flowers and climbers to fruits and vegetables—when he hears the trill of the doorbell and the gentle rumble of conversation evaporates from the air.

It’s quiet now, just the two of you.

“Hello there, Paterson,” you say brightly, softly, from behind the counter as you fix up the register.

Pat glances over, and Christ you look so cute as you count out the notes and coins in your hands, mouthing the sums you’re adding up before tapping a lever that opens the till with a _ding_ and placing the cash inside. You look up at him and smile as you close the little drawer with a metal, mechanical _swish-snap_. “What brings you to Rosebuds today?” He hears your voice, he sees your lips move, but, _God_ , you’re _so_ pretty.

It takes him a beat to collect himself. He had a _plan_ , he’d better remember it.

“Well I,” he starts, gripping a second packet of strawberry seeds and starting to walk towards you at the counter, “was on my way downtown to grab some lunch and I thought, I should really refresh those birthday flowers from a couple weeks’ back.” He stood right across from you now, and had to fight the big intake of breath that threatened to undo him as you leant onto the counter on your elbows. He clears his throat softly, “they’re getting a bit, uh…” Oh no, you’re just _that much_ closer to him now and he can’t- remember- the words…

“They a bit manky?” you say, screwing your face up a little bit on the last word.

Pat crumbles. That was way too cute. “A l-little, yeah,” his voice breaks on it and he huffs a quiet chuckle to try to hide it.

You make a big exaggerated sigh and stand up straight again, “ahh, the circle of life. I love it, you know? This cycle of death and life,” you walk around the counter, and Pat is transfixed by the sway of your dress, “the way flowers grow, like most things, from tiny seeds,” you collect a seemingly random selection of flowers from the little metal pails and displays around the shop, eyeing them and smelling them and bundling them in your palm, “to bulbs, and blooms, and then at their prettiest and sweetest and best they start to decay,” you snip a string of ribbon from one of the many colourful rolls at the gift wrapping station and tie a bow around the stems, “and they wither, and rot, and shrivel up into nothing but shells of their former selves,” suddenly you’re in front of him, breathing in the scent of a beautiful [bouquet](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/2d/b7/76/2db77655cedafe479451679f17b02d1f.jpg) full of dusky lilacs and blue-toned purples, roses, ranunculus, hydrangea, lavender sprigs, “and bless us with seeds, to start again.”

Paterson’s heart thuds in his chest: loud, heavy, defying him, like your words spoke right to his soul.

“For you,” you breathe, and hold the bundle of flowers just slightly away from your chest, offering the bouquet to him.

Pat tries to speak, his mouth dry. You’re standing close to him, looking up at him and he swears your pretty pupils are at least half as big as they were before.

He reaches out, slowly, grazes the soft sensitive underside of your wrist with his fingertips as he tries to grasp the bundle of stems and he’s _sure_ he’s _not_ imagining the way your chest rose on an inhale at that.

A car horn blares outside, Marvin barks in an aggressive retort—and the bubble bursts.

 _Shit_. No matter. You’re not deterred.

You place the bouquet into his hand, take a steadying breath and say, “for lunch, there’s a superb deli a few shops down, but, I’d recommend the bakery across the street, if you’re,” you take a slow, subtle, half-step closer to him, “yearning, for something sweet.”

You’re so close now, Pat can smell your perfume. It’s delicate, soft, _sexy_. He swallows thickly, leans in just a little, “I-“

The doorbell chimes and you both jump, the tiny sound deafening.

God. _Fucking_. Damn it.

You take a step back, and so does Pat. He lets out a long, silent breath through the little round ‘o’ his lips make, and clears his throat again, quietly.

“Won’t be a moment!” you smile to the new patron, but really you could _throttle_ them.

Paterson fishes his wallet out of his pocket, despite you raising your hands in protest, and he says, “for the flowers, and the s-seeds.” He grabs a couple notes and-

You close the distance in an instant and place your palm over his, stopping his movement, stopping his whole _heart_. “Keep it, and, take me out for coffee sometime?”

Yep, his heart’s stopped beating. “Y-yeah, yeah, sure,” he blurts out, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, biting it. You did just say what he thought you said, right? Your smile will be the death of him, and your _eyes_ , so _sultry_ the way you glint and gleam at him like that. “Yes, of course. Definitely.” He nods, swallows, sets his jaw. He’s never been more serious about anything in his whole life.

You squeeze his hand, wink at him, turn and walk away.

Pat’s knees are about to give out, and his eyes flutter as you sashay over to the customer. He notices how similar the colours of your dress and the tones of his bouquet are.

Suddenly, he wishes it _was_ a cold Autumn morning outside: maybe the brisk chill would help _calm him down_.

He leaves Rosebuds, gripping the beautiful bundle of blooms in a big, sweaty palm.

**XXXX**

Pat sighs looking into the empty pot of coffee beans. It’s Saturday again, and he’d been so _distracted_ during the week, he didn’t realise he was running low on the essentials.

Marvin whimpers, and Pat looks to the floor on his left where the little dog waits for his attention. Pat shakes his head at him, disapproving. “No coffee, Marvin? How could you let this happen?”

Marvin lets out a little squeak of a bark as Pat grabs a notepad, checks the fridge and cupboard, and scribbles down a few things. Then, Marvin barks for real when Pat rips off the page, shrugs on his coat and grabs his keys. “You know this doesn’t take me long, Marvin.”

Marvin growls, and Pat replies, “I will, later, save your grumbling.” He deadlocks the lock, murmurs, “be back soon,” and heads outside, letting the wooden door close and latch behind him.

The drive to the shopping centre was a quick one, thankfully. This early, when the sun _just_ crests over the horizon, and the only real sounds are birds crowing and cawing and chirping: when bakers are still baking and baristas are just starting to waft the smell roasting beans into the world, the town of Paterson seems almost devoid of humanity.

Entering the complex, Pat makes a beeline for the café nearest the supermarket, not daring to do _anything_ else without at least a sip of coffee first. These two shops are the only things open so far, it must’ve just gone 7am.

Pat checks his watch, sees that he’s right, lifts up his head and it’s _you_.

He nearly stumbles.

You’re standing in line at the café, a big warm forest green coat wrapped around you with the hem of a floral dress poking out from underneath.

Pat’s breath catches in his throat.

You’ve got a trolley full of groceries to your right, and you fish your phone out of your pocket and check something on it. The time, maybe? Like he did just now?

Pat’s feet carry him towards you without any real conscious input from his brain. _Oh, God_ , he hasn’t prepared for this at all, and he’s almost there, almost right behind you, one more step, another, the last. _Shit!_

He goes to say something, runs through phrases so fast in his head, ‘good morning’, ‘hi’, ‘hi stranger!’, ‘hey there’, ‘fancy seeing you here’— but he can’t settle on a single thought and-

Suddenly you turn your head to the side, you must notice someone’s standing behind you out of the corner of your eye because you look, turn, register it’s him and your face breaks into a big, warm, heart-stopping smile.

“Hey you!” you chirp at him, perky and bright, eyes twinkling.

 _Oh God, say something. Say **some** thing._ Pat feels himself heating up, going pink, and your name tumbles from his lips, followed by a big toothy grin he can’t control. Seeing your pretty face all lit up like this, it _does_ something to him. “Hh-how are you?”

“Oh I will be _just_ fine once I get some caffeine into me.” You laugh, and it’s _gorgeous_.

Pat chuckles. You don’t miss a beat, no matter how long his pauses might be or when he stumbles over words. Yeah, he can do this. He can talk to you. You make it easy for him. “Yeah, this morning I woke up to no coffee beans, so, that was devastating.”

“Oh no!” you commiserate, “that’s criminal!”

Pat huffs another laugh at your feigned expression of horror, feels something cold crack in his chest, gooey warmth seeping out of it. “It wasn’t my finest hour, not my best planning.”

“Busy week? It’s been about a week since I’ve seen you, right?”

You move forward in the line and Pat follows you, swallows thickly. “Oh, yeah, I think, y’know,” now is _not_ the time to tell you he’s been counting the days until today rolled around, “with work, and Marvin,” and there will likely _never_ be a time to tell you all the ways he’s thought about you over the past few days, “there’s been a few things on, yeah.”

You hum, “you drive a bus for work, don’t you?”

 _Oh my God_ , you’re like lightning. “Y-yeah,” Pat can’t help but smile again, “great memory, again.” He says your name once more, loves how it feels on his tongue, loves saying it out loud to your _face_ instead of-

“Well,” you give him a slow, warm, melting smile, “some things are worth remembering, Paterson.”

His breath catches. Something _bursts_.

Paterson’s lips part, his eyes soften, all the muscles in his face just appear to _relax_.

An unfamiliar voice calls from ahead, startling the pair of you. “Next waiting, please.”

“Oh,” you sigh, “that’ll be me,” you bite your lip just a little, just the tiniest bit in regret of cutting yet another conversation with Paterson short.

Pat leans in ever so slightly as you step away to the counter, leans in just a little bit to follow your movement, involuntary, unthinking: like you’re connected, like you’re magnets.

He stops himself and listens.

He turns his head just slightly to hear better, and listens so carefully.

He listens more intently than he ever has in his whole life.

He takes note of everything: the coffee you order, the milk, syrup, sweetener, temperature, size. He repeats it over and over in his mind, committing it to memory.

“Uh, and,” he hears you say, flicks his gaze up to where you’re turned around to face him, “what’ll you have, Paterson?”

“Oh,” he’s not- he wasn’t- “uh,” he steps up to the counter with you, looks at you, stumbles over his order for an americano, “h-here,” he fumbles for his wallet. He did not expect this, and he was certainly not going to let you pay for it.

You already have your card out, “I’ve got it,” you smile at him, and Paterson doesn’t know what to do with himself, “you get the next one,” you tap your card on the machine, it beeps, you thank the barista and it’s done.

Paterson can’t believe this. You just, so willingly, and _next one?_ “Thank you,” he says earnestly. “Really, I was happy to- I wasn’t expecting you to-“

“I know you weren’t, and don’t mention it,” you walk over to the collection counter, trolley in tow and Pat following, “I’m just glad we ran into each other again.”

You beam at him, and Pat feels on fire. “Me-me too.”

There’s something in the air, something smooth and soft and bright and crackling. It’s like spinning fairy floss, it’s like arcing electricity.

You gaze into each other’s eyes, pupils gently expanding, lips slowly parting, time slowing down as you’re both about to say something-

The barista calls your order out, and you both deflate a little, blinking out of the haze. There has _got to be_ a better way to have a quiet conversation together.

“Well,” you hum, placing your steaming hot coffee in the trolley’s cup holder, “I’ve gotta get these home and, get the shop open soon-“

“Of course-yeah-“ _Damn it._ Could he see you later?

“I’d love to stay-“

“Yeah-I-you-“ _Shit, damn it._ When will he see you again?

“Hey,” you catch his eyes, let him settle for a beat. Heart pounding, you say, “come see me again soon?”

Pat nods, eyes serious and heavy. He thinks he senses it from you too: that racing, thudding, beating heart, so heavy and hard you can _hear_ it. “I will.” He gulps, mouth dry, and licks his lips.

“Great,” you breathe through a smile, and ready yourself to walk away.

Pat’s stomach swoons. “Great.”

You exchange smiles, hushed huffed half-laughs, quick courtesies, and walk away from him.

All Pat can think, the only words he knows, the only thing he can do as he watches you leave, is recite how you like your coffee.

He whips out the ripped off page of his shopping list, and scribbles it down on the back.

**XXXX**

Another week drones on, another six days without seeing your face. Pat goes to work, writes, goes to the bar, writes, and goes to sleep, and repeats.

Well, sometimes he goes to sleep. Sometimes, try as he might, his head is so full of thoughts of you he _just can’t_. That’s when he finds something _else_ to do and passes out soon after, all sweaty and sticky and messy.

So when Pat rolls over in bed, blinks blearily awake at the morning light creeping in through the hole in the wall, and realises that it’s Saturday again—he jumps out of bed so fast he almost gives himself a head spin.

In no time at all he’s out the door and on his way, his steps mindless as his feet carry him to you by memory. In his jacket pocket, his fingers curl around the scrap of paper he’s furled and unfurled so many times it’s almost soft to the touch.

He crosses Market Street, walks across and down a couple still-closed shops, makes his purchase, checks the time, and heads on over to Rosebuds, to _you_.

He gets to the glass door at the same time you do, with your key in hand ready to open the shop for the day. You’re flipping over the homemade ‘come on in!’ sign right as Paterson appears in view.

Your fingers fumble in your haste to unlock and open the door for him, to get him inside out of the cold.

Pat waits eagerly. But not too eagerly, he hopes, as he tries not to bounce on his toes. You were in blue today, and all his nerves sung at the sight of you.

The bell jingles and you welcome him in with a flurry of your dress and a big, “good morning! My God, aren’t you cold!?”

Pat smiles, big and wide. “Only a little.” Truly, he hadn’t felt the cold, not in any meaningful way. The thought of you just warms him up from the inside.

“Come in!” you exclaim, the red tips of his nose and ears, the dusting of colour on his cheeks not fooling you for a minute. You had some tea in the back, and some instant coffee too, and you’d just heard the kettle boil not a moment ago. “I’ll get you something hot-“

“Really I-,” he starts, and you stop, your eyes just now flicking down to the takeaway coffee cup and small white plastic bag in his hands as the bell trills with the closing door.

Pat takes a deep breath, seeing where your eyes have gone, and it seems so so loud in the warm silence. “I’m fine, really.” Your gaze flicks back to his with this _look_ in your eyes and his heart flutters. “I wanted to… you’re here so early, and. I thought you might like—that maybe you haven’t eaten, yet. You might be hungry.”

Your gaze flits from his face to his hands and back again. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. The hint of a smile creeps into your voice when you ask, “Mister Paterson… what are you saying?”

Pat bites his lip on a small laugh, says, “this is for you,” and places the treats on the counter. “It’s breakfast, for you. From the bakery,” he nudges his head towards the street, “I uh, I got your coffe-“

“Oh, from the bakery across the street? I love that place! Oh, yum, thanks so much, Pat!”

He feels that oozing warmth trickle through him again. You’d just—Pat? His heart rate ticks up.

“Aw!” you take the small white box out of the bag hastily, open it up to find a generous slice of strawberry peach pie inside. “Pat!” you gasp, “thank you! I- oh.”

There it was again. “Oh, no worries.” He huffs a laugh through it but fuck, he’s blushing again, he can feel it. He hadn’t had someone call him ‘Pat’ in- in- _decades_.

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t,” you laugh a little, just realising that the name you call him when you think about him slipped out into your conversation. “Can I call you ‘Pat’?” You take a sip of coffee and look up at him through your lashes.

“Uh,” Pat stumbles, scratching the side of his neck nervously, “yeah. Yes. Of course.” He bites his lip, smiles, and a hearty chuckle overtakes him. “Sure. ‘Pat’s fine.”

You smile at him with your eyes, and his heart just melts. You finish your sip of caffeine and good Lord, it was delicious, it was _perfect_. “Oh my _God_ , this coffee?” You place it down on the counter and look at him disbelievingly.

Pat’s stomach sinks, his whole face falls. “Is it bad?” Oh, shit. Oh, no. “I’ll get another-“

“No no! Pat,” you want to kiss that frown right off his handsome face, “no, it’s. How did you. This is exactly how I like it.”

“Oh,” a wave of relief washes over him and short huffs of a laugh are pulled from his chest. “Good. I uh, I listened, last week at the café. Memorised it…” you’re gazing at him, a soft, warm smile tugging at your lips and he feels it bubble over, that thing he’s wanted and needed for over a month now. He steels himself and he says, “I’d love to call you. I’d love to speak with you, more, not just on Saturdays. If you, uh, would like that too.“

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, fish your phone out of your dress pocket as you take a slow step closer to him.

Pat’s eyes flit over your form, your hair, all the features of your face. He can almost, almost smell a whiff of your perfume. You’re looking down, tapping something into your phone and when you look up at him with that smile it’s like someone’s playing his heartstrings like a harp.

And that someone is you.

“What’s your number? I’ll text you and you’ll have mine.”

His eyebrows pinch in for a second, “oh I don’t actually, I don’t have a mobile.”

Your head tilts to the side, and the flash of confusion over your face is so endearing Pat has to clench his fists to stop from grabbing you and kissing you.

“Landline, then?” you ask, your gaze flicking back to your phone as you tap away some more.

Pat’s mouth drops open. He’s never had someone _not_ question him about ‘how do you survive without a phone’ and ‘what do you mean you don’t have a phone’ and ‘how do you talk to people’ and ‘how do you live’ until you. You just, accepted it.

He gulps and recites his home phone number, and you save it under ‘Pat’ and click your phone off, pop it on the counter. “Do you have a pen?” you ask, and Pat falters.

“No,” Pat says, confused, through a laugh, “no and I, don’t know why I didn’t bring one.”

You grin at him, and Pat’s smile broadens. You grab a pen and paper from over the counter but he stops you with a “oh I, I’ve got the paper though.”

He searches his pocket, pulls out last week’s shopping list with your coffee order scribbled down on the back.

You smile at each other again, eyes glinting, then you grab the paper and write down your numbers and say, “here’s my mobile… and… here’s the shop.” You hand it back to him, “call me anytime you like, I’m around.”

Pat’s heart sings. He takes the paper from you and pockets it, watches you take another sip of coffee and hears your delighted hum: it goes all the way through him. “Oh, that’s so good,” you say, licking your lips and setting the cup down again. Pat swallows thickly, willing himself not to react. He’d imagined such words falling from your lips so many times, too many times: hearing it now was just going to get him into trouble.

He clears his throat, distracting himself. “Well I’d better, be going. I’ll let you eat your breakfast in peace.”

“You don’t want to stay?” you ask, unwrapping the little plastic fork, preparing to dig into that gorgeous glistening slice of pie.

Oh he does, he really does want to stay, absolutely. “I-“ he cannot, “I have to-“ not with the way you’re-

Pat loses coherency when you dip your fork into the pie, pop the morsel into your mouth and use the tip of your index finger to wipe away some of the syrupy goodness that got stuck on the corner of your mouth. You hum another pleased moan as you eat, quickly suck the sticky pad of your finger into your mouth and grab a napkin, murmuring, “so good.”

You flick your eyes back to his, lick your lips and pad them with the napkin and say, “want some?”

Pat’s heartbeat booms in his ears. He can’t, he doesn’t. _Shit_.

He feels himself staring. He wants to kiss you. He wants to lick the sweetness right out of your mouth. He wants to taste you, to _eat_ you.

 _Fuck_. He needs to get out of here. He needs to stay. He needs to answer soon.

“I should go.”

Even to his own ears, it doesn’t sound like he means it.

You nod, giving him a small smile, and the corners of his mouth pull up a little. “I know,” you say, “just. Let me say thanks?”

His brow pinches in for a moment—you’d definitely thanked him already. He can’t help mirroring your grin as it grows on your pretty face. “Ok,” he says, and his heart stops when you grip his forearm and say, “don’t go anywhere.”

You stride past him to the back, calling out, “I just got these in, I think you’re gonna like them.”

Pat waits, heart hammering, palms sweating, that little scrap of paper burning a hole in his pocket.

A minute later, you walk back in to the shop, holding a single [flower](https://www.starrosesandplants.com/sites/default/files/styles/580x400/public/pretty_in_pink_eden_web2.jpg?itok=xYgXNAw9). It’s a rose variety, a gorgeously rich pink with thin, silky soft petals, and it makes Pat’s breath catch in his chest.

“Thanks, Pat,” you say, handing him the rose. “Call me sometime.”

He locks eyes with you, leans in, hovers just above the pretty pink flower and breathes in the sweet scent of it. “Tonight?” he murmurs, head swimming and grinning like a fool.

“Tonight,” you breathe, his big toothy smile infectious.


	3. Call Her, Ask Her, Say It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Pat talk on the phone. Like, a lot.

Pat holds the cordless phone in his hand, trembling fingers and slightly sweaty palm, staring at the little blue-white backlit numbers. He takes a big breath in through his nose, filling his lungs, expanding his chest, letting it out through quivering lips before he pulls them between his teeth and bites down.

He swallows, hard, and glances at Marvin who simply blinks back at him, blankly.

“Don’t look at me like that, Marvin,” Pat grumbles, flicking his gaze back to the crumpled up paper with two weeks’ ago’s groceries on one side, and your coffee order and phone numbers on the other. He’d been trying for, maybe, five minutes to dial your number—but that’s if he was being generous with himself.

It was really more like ten.

Pat turns away from Marvin, feeling like the little dog is only judging him. He clears his throat, mutters to himself, “alright, Paterson, call her. Just call her,” under his breath as he wipes his palms off on his jeans.

He presses the key for the first digit in your mobile number, and the little LED screen at the top lights up with it. He knows he’s got three seconds before it erases itself, knows he’s been standing here for far too long letting that happen, over and over.

Marvin barks, right at that moment, as if agreeing with him.

Pat sighs again, screws his eyes shut for a beat, _call her, call her, call her_ repeating in his brain, _now, now, now._

He snaps his eyes open and dials your number, not even looking at the crumpled up paper—he doesn’t need to, he’s already memorised your number from reading and half-dialling it so many times—and he doesn’t let a single other thought enter his head.

“Hi Pat,” your voice chimes through the phone, sing-songing but in a nice way. Light. Bright.

“Hhey,” he breathes out, gulping again before he says your name. “I uh, is now a good, uh, time?”

“Sure,” you answer, and the smile in your voice makes his knees weak, “perfect, actually. I just,” you stop yourself, pause for a beat, and say the next few words through a small, soft laugh, so breathy through the phone, “oh God, this reveals far too much about how boring I am, but, I just sat down with a cup of tea, so… now you know that about me and how I spend my Saturday nights.”

Pat breaks out in a chuckle, instantly at ease, doing nothing better than that himself. “Sounds truly wild,” he jokes, taking a seat in a dining chair, leaning on his elbows on the table.

“Oh, it’s a riot,” you jest back, the deep vibrato of his laugh making you smile.

There’s a beat of silence, Pat too caught up in imagining your pretty face, your comfy baggy at-home clothes, and what you do with your hair when you get home, and do you take your make up off earlier, as soon as you walk in the door, or later, just before bed, and do you take your tea black or with milk, or is it herbal, and do you prefer slippers or socks, and—

“So, did you do anything fun today, after I saw you?” your voice breaks through his thoughts, and he could kick himself for getting carried away with his own thoughts.

“Oh, you know…” Pat wracks his brain, tries to think of a clever, or at least _funny_ way, to tell you about going to the post office and then buying dog food, “I… not, not really, no,” he settles on. _Great, well said._

Another beat passes, a moment of silence, before you both just burst out laughing.

“Well, I don’t feel like I missed out on too much, then,” you say.

“No, nothing at all,” Pat smiles, “except, did you know,” his tone is playful, joking, “parking outside the post office is only _fifteen_ minutes now?”

You gasp, exaggerated, “no!” you say it like it’s a small tragedy, “I don’t believe it!”

He chuckles, “believe it, baby,” and immediately snaps his mouth shut, wincing, wanting to fall into a hole and die of embarrassment. “I mean, I meant-,” it just slipped out, but it’s way too early, and Christ he could _really_ kick himself now.

“I can’t, I won’t believe it, Pat,” you cut off his stammering, powering on over his slip-up so he doesn’t have to explain it or apologise for it, and he feels a little less like a damn fool because of that, because of you, “fifteen minutes isn’t even enough time to stand in line at that place!”

“Y-yeah,” Pat chuckles through it, “I-I know.” He tries to shake it off, but he feels hot and sweaty again. Nervous, silly.

“And on Saturdays, too. Such a busy day. God you know, if I kept someone waiting that long at _my_ shop I’d have _no_ customers whatsoever.”

Oh, but how eager he is to hear more about this: to listen to you, to hear your stories, to memorise the sound of your voice without goofing it up with his own stupid input. “Did you have a busy day today, after we…?” he asks, genuine and hopeful.

“Oh, my God,” you say, and it sounds to Pat like you’d just taken a sip of tea. “Don’t even get me started, Pat, today was an absolute mess, I mean. If I may. It was a complete shit fight.”

He chuckles, throaty deep laughs that he tries and fails to suppress, and you launch into a vivid re-telling of your day.

Pat eats it up, soaks it up, hangs on every word you say: laughing with you, commiserating too, asking you questions and even talking a little bit about some of his own ‘favourite’ customers, slipping into stories he’d long forgotten to laugh about…

Far too soon, he glances at his watch and finds it’s after midnight.

“No, that can’t be right,” he mutters, accidentally out loud, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder and tapping at the watch-face.

“What?” you ask, on the back-end of a breathy laugh, “you ok, Pat?”

“Oh no I, I’m fine, it’s uh, just that it’s late,” he grabs the phone again, in his right hand this time, to give his cramping left a rest, “it got late quick, I mean.”

“What,” your voice is soft, and trails off into silence for a second before, “Shit! Wow! You are, just… incredibly easy to talk to, Paterson.”

He smiles. “You are, too.”

Neither of you can see the warm, subtle smiles playing on each other’s faces. But they’re there.

“I guess I’d better go,” you say quietly into the soft silence, “but, _thank you_ , Pat. I haven’t laughed or—even talked like that with someone in a long while.”

Pat’s throat bobs, “me too.” He doesn’t want this to end, doesn’t want to hang up, but he can feel it coming like he’s unravelling the last of a ribbon from its spool.

“Will you call me tomorrow?”

Your question hangs in the air, full of hope and potential, and his heart leaps in his chest. “Yes, sure,” he replies, too quick, but not caring about that anymore. “Tomorrow, sure, same time?”

“That would be good, yeah. Great, actually.”

“Great,” he says, refusing to accept it, unwilling to yield to the ringing emptiness in his immediate future—being alone (or near enough to) in his house without your voice to accompany him.

“Would you, forgive me if I said ‘goodnight’ right now? It just feels, right. And nice, with you.”

Pat’s stomach flips, all the way over. “No, yes, of course. That sounds…” he trails off, says his next word slowly, deliberately, in a way he hopes you’ll remember as your head rests on your pillow. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Pat,” you say, just as dreamily.

**XXXX**

As promised, Pat did call you tomorrow.

And the day after it, and the day after that.

You kept asking him to, as one or other of you realised the time and reluctantly said your goodbyes. Pat was only too willing to comply. He’d come to hope for it, wait for it.

You both had routines down. Pat would walk Marvin, have a drink at the bar—sitting up straighter and ducking sly comments about the low-carb beer—rush home and set up Marvin with enough water and dry biscuits to keep himself occupied, then sit at the dining table and dial your number.

You’d be ready in your cosiest armchair, with your warmest blanket, fully charged phone in one hand and a steaming hot cup of tea in the other.

The two of you talked for hours on end, and about nothing, really. Your day, his day, home, Marvin, coffee, food, flowers. Sometimes there were silences, between the talking and the laughing. Sometimes they were awkward, sure, but sometimes they were soft and warm, where if you squinted you could just about see the other’s smiling face, gazing right back.

**XXXX**

It’s Saturday, it’s evening, and Pat hadn’t gone to visit you at Rosebuds.

It’s funny how things become unusual, after a time. Some way or other he’d seen you every Saturday for the past month and a bit. It felt more than routine, more like ritual, now, and going without the sight of your face, smell of your perfume, sway of your dress… it just felt wrong, odd, off.

So as he stayed home and pottered about and willed himself not to go to you—not for any reason nefarious, but because he had a _plan_ —Pat had to constantly tell himself, reassure himself, that he was ok, this would be ok, he hadn’t imagined it, he was sure you felt it too.

The day passes glacially, sunlight slowly melting across the floors and walls until night starts to creep its way across the sky. He can’t wait for it, not really, needs darkness to shroud the house like a thick, soft blanket, needs moonlight to beam through the kitchen window at that angle like it does, when the moon and stars signal to him that it’s almost time.

A minute to go, and he sits at the table. He wonders if he should’ve got himself a cold one, a cold, smooth, malty lager: he wonders if he still has time to, but decides against it. That’s just the nerves talking.

Pat watches the second hand stutter across the watch-face, heart skipping when the minute hand ticks over. He dials your number by memory, taking a deep breath in an attempt to steady his racing heart.

It rings, and rings, and rings, and _rings_ , but then-

“Heyyy you!” so bright, so clear and happy through the phone comes your voice, “I mi—I’m so happy you called!”

“H-,” Pat goes to talk but something catches in his throat: he turns the receiver away and coughs, clearing it, “soh-sorry,” does it again, flushing pink to boot. He thanks God you can’t see him right now, like this, making a fool of himself.

“Oh, Pat,” he hears you through his spluttering, “a-are you alright?”

He gets it together, eyes watering, but calms down just enough to bring the receiver back to his mouth and say, “so, so sorry,” he chokes out your name, “sorry, I don’t-,”

“Oh you’re fine, Pat, honestly, I’m just. I’m just so happy to hear your voice.”

It hangs in the air, and Pat smiles softly, his eyes closing for a brief moment as he revels in your words. He can’t believe how much he’d almost fucked this up, coughing and spluttering like a lovestruck teenager, unable to get any words out at all, not even a God damned ‘hello’ for Heaven’s sake. He attempts a self-deprecating joke, “you’re… you’re not sick of me, yet?”

You laugh, the melody of it doing him in. “ _Sick_ of you? Mmno, I wouldn’t say that, Mister Paterson… I wouldn’t say that, not at all.”

Your words float there again, levitating in front of him, around him, inside him. Pat gets the sense there’s more you’re not saying, and so he asks, braver than he feels, “what would you say, then?” and he says your name again, smoother and softer this time.

A pause, a beat, a moment of silence so long and empty he starts to regret it all, and re-think everything he’s ever said to anyone in his whole life-

Then, husky and breathy through the phone, comes: “I’d say I missed you, Pat.”

You—you missed… him? You-

“I know we didn’t say anything about it last night but I,” you sigh through the phone, “and you were probably busy, but I guess I’d hoped I’d see you today, you know… _Saturday_ and all... kinda becoming our thing…,” a little laugh then, a short, cut off, hopeful little thing—followed by a quick sharp gasp, “I mean, not _our_ thing, we don’t have a, I mean there’s not really an…”

Pat’s insides crumble. Right then, right there in his kitchen: they turn to ash, and crumble.

_Shit._

He sighs your name, irritated at himself, “I’m so sorry,” and you stop rambling, stop trying to backpedal and let him speak, really speak to you for the first time tonight.

“It’s been a while, for me. I’m out of practice,” he starts, but no, that’s not right. “That’s not, an excuse—that’s not even what I mean to say, I mean…” he sighs, “I am learning, how to do this, how to be…” Fuck. _This isn’t about you, idiot!_

“It’s ok, Pat,” your voice coos through the phone, soft and gentle and sweet. “Take your time, I’m here.”

And maybe it’s just that—maybe that’s the sense he’s gotten from you, the feeling he’s had about you, all along. Maybe, you putting it into words like that, about something completely different…

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, and maybe that’s what does it, maybe hearing _that_ is just what he needs.

He closes his eyes, pictures your face, and just says it, all of it, everything. “Talking to you is the best part of my day. I fall asleep, happy—and when I wake up it’s the first thing I think about, hearing your voice again at night if I can make—get through the day. You,” he huffs through his nose, “you get me out of bed in the morning… and I wanted—God—all day I wanted to see you,” he sighs, “I’m an idiot. I thought it might be too much, to want to call you and see you and, just, I had something I wanted to ask you and now I just think I’m scaring you off entirely and that… that…”

He gulps, hard and thick, over a tight knot in his throat.

A silent, heavy moment passes. You break it. “Pat? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” he answers too quick, trying to compensate for his voice tight and strained, choked.

“What were you saying? About me being scared?”

His inhale is shaky, wobbly. “That, it, would devastate me.”

He hears you sigh through the phone, but even after a beat passes, you say nothing.

Pat’s heart plummets through his chest. He’s lost, the rules of the game too strange for him. He _did_ come on too strong, and not strong enough, and now it’s done, dashed. “I-,”

“What did you want to ask me?”

Pat stammers, stutters: could he, could you, are you giving him a second cha-

“You had something you wanted to ask me. Ask,” he hears you breathe again, “I think you’ll like the answer.”

His heart slams against his ribs—heavy stomping thuds.

He will not, _not_ , fuck this up again. He’d planned, he’d practiced.

Pat takes another lungful of air. “Would you like to spend time with me, tomorrow, and have coffee at the Falls? Together? And I’ll bring the coffee, and a blanket, we can sit on…?”

A beat passes, before you ask, “coffee at the Falls?”

“Well-uh, I-uh,” Pat falters, “and some—some sandwiches but, they were meant to be a surprise-,”

“A _picnic_ , at the _Falls?_ ”

He wasn’t mishearing it, Pat recognises the happy, excited tone in your voice, he’s heard it that many times. “Well, yeah,” he replies through a smile he tries to stifle, his cheeks and neck heating up something fierce, “would you, like to join me, for that?” He scrunches his eyes up.

A soft, breathy laugh from you, “yes, Pat, I’d like to join you for that,” and you’re smiling through your words again, he can tell, and he chuckles with glee, with relief, all the nerves and anxiety bubbling over into high, throaty giggles as he tries to say, “great, oh that’s, that’s great.”

You laugh too, from the pleasure of hearing it.


	4. Peaches and Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your first date with Pat.

Paterson looks to his left, at the fully laden passenger seat. There’s a rolled up blue tartan picnic blanket, two large coffees nestled in a recyclable cardboard cup tray, and a Tupperware container stuffed with the three kinds of sandwiches he’d made and cut into neat little triangles.

For a second, he thinks he’s overdone it. A half-second later he thinks he hasn’t done enough.

But Pat stops himself. If he starts thinking like that, he’ll lose all nerve—so he gulps and checks his watch.

Ten minutes early.

Breathing deep, clenching his jaw, Pat takes his keys out of the ignition and collects the somewhat cumbersome bundle of goodies in his big arms. A few moments of awkward manoeuvring later, he’s strolling into the park with all his wares, eyeing the grassy outlook before him and the shifting sky above him, searching for the best place to set up. His stomach swoops, your smiling face flashing into his mind. The thought of seeing you—of maybe even, getting to _kiss_ you—makes his skin flush and perspiration prick his palms.

The sky above Paterson is sunny with some clouds overhead, and they’re not as sparse as he would’ve liked. They streak the blue sky with white patchy lines, feathery wisps, and others that hang full and heavy and tinged with light grey, like rain may come late tonight, or tomorrow. There’s an intermittent breeze with a chilled edge to it, which picks up when the sun moves behind a cloud, and whispers through the trees as it goes. But the gloom is merely momentary, transitory, because then the sun returns, beaming its bright yellow light over the park, it makes the green water and white foam of the Falls glimmer and sparkle.

Pat purses his lips. It’s not how he’d imagined it. He’d imagined an unseasonably warm day, tepid at least, the air still but for sweet chirping birdsong and maybe some little yellow or orange tip butterflies flitting about. But this, with the cool air and cloudy-ish sky and sometimes-sun… this was not how he wanted today to go…

But then, your face flickers into his mind again, and Pat thinks to himself: it doesn’t have to be perfect to be special.

He finds a patch of grass near a small tree with a nice view of the [cascade](https://www.clui.org/sites/default/files/ludb/nj/14090/2009-11-04-12-51-37.jpg), unobstructed by the weathered wood benches scattered around the fenced edge of the water. He’d sat on each one of those benches at one time or another, with no one but Marvin, or nothing but his own thoughts, to accompany him. But today was not one of those times.

A moment after he finishes setting up the blanket and sandwiches and coffee, a voice calls out from behind him, and Pat just knows it’s you.

His heart leaps in chest as he turns to face you, smiling a soft, closed-mouth smile with his eyes as much as his lips. “Hi,” he greets you, your name rolling off his tongue as he extends a hand to grace the bend of your elbow with the slightest touch. He leans in, unsure, hesitating, and presses a chaste, cautious dry peck to your cheek.

Pat catches the slightest hint of your perfume, and fills his lungs with it.

“Hi, you,” you say back to him as he leans away, smiling down at you. “I brought sweets,” you hold the plastic container and white paper bag, stacked on top, “scones and a peach tart. A happy pairing with your coffee and sandwiches?”

“You didn’t have to,” Pat smiles, taking the parcels from your hands grinning like an idiot—unable to stop himself.

“No I know, I know I didn’t,” you reply, gazing up at him, “but I wanted to.”

Paterson beams, a giddy lightness overtaking the jittery anxiety in his chest—especially with the way you’re smiling back at him too.

“This looks great, Pat” you gesture to the picnic he’s laid out, “may I sit?”

He tells you: of course, please, he should’ve brought pillows, he hopes it’s nice, he hopes you like it, and he wants to slap himself for rambling. You share happy, toothy, awkward smiles as you settle onto the blanket, and all set up, it looks like a feast. The large takeaway coffees stand proudly, next to triangles of BLT on multigrain, egg salad on white, and chicken and avocado on rye sandwiches, as well as the fresh scones with little tubs of raspberry jam and cream, and the small peach and almond tart you’d gotten from the bakery downtown, already cut into 4 and ready to be devoured.

Pat hands you your coffee, your name spelt wrong on the side. “I spelt it out three times,” he says, his eyes apologetic.

“People’s creativity, huh? Thanks, Pat,” you say, taking the cup and eyeing the almost masterful misspelling—like someone had put in effort to take your name down that badly. But then, you imagine Pat spelling it out, over and over, getting… irritated? Frustrated? Shaking his head in disbelief? It makes it a little better.

You take a sip of coffee and hum your appreciation, looking out at the waterfall and bubbles of white foam in the plunge pool below. “This is a beautiful spot, Pat,” you say softly, in awe of the sight and sound of the cascading water.

“Gorgeous,” Pat answers quietly, not taking his eyes off you. He knows the Falls is a pretty spot, he’s seen it, he’s been here. It’s _you_ he wants to study, every curve and angle of your face, every line around your eyes and lips, right down to every eyelash. You’re his new favourite view.

“I love how the water looks—kinda brown, dark green,” you take another sip of coffee, the soothing warmth slipping smoothly down your throat, and look back at him, “reflections of the rocks, and the trees…”

Pat clears his throat quietly, mentally shaking himself to focus on the conversation and not just your pretty face. “Mm, this time of day, in this light,” he agrees, turning back to the water. “Sometimes, earlier or later, it changes. First thing in the morning it’s like ice, like a cool grey blue… I’ve been here at night and it’s jet black.”

“Mystifying,” you breathe, imagining it.

“Well, maybe that’s… it’s more like an indigo. Like the deepest, darkest purple-blue you can get before black. And it just glints, like a gem, in the cold, clear light of the moon.”

His voice grows quieter, slower, deeper as he talks, and it’s mesmerising, lulling you to glance back at him and lean slightly closer to him as he speaks. “That’s beautiful, Pat,” you say honestly when he finishes, “poetic, even.”

He hums a small chuckle, turning to face you again, and his smile gently fades when he registers the look on your face. His pulse ticks up, his heart thudding steadily, heavily in his chest as his gaze flicks down to your lips, then back to your eyes. He swallows, leans ever so slightly in towards you, his lips just about parting as you mirror him, about to meet him in the middle when—

“Hey, Paterson!” a voice calls out from behind you.

A shorter man comes into your frame of view, dressed smartly in a button up shirt and longline tweed blazer, neatly tied scarf and thick-rimmed black glasses.

“Everett,” Pat leans subtly away and makes to stand, as something you’ve not really heard before, something like an undercurrent of frustration, laces his tone.

“No, no, don’t get up,” the man named Everett holds his hands up, reassuring, and Pat settles back on the tartan rug as Everett smiles at you and says, “hello.”

“Hi,” you respond, your voice pleasant. Even though this guy essentially just cockblocked you, you’re happy to meet one of Paterson’s friends.

Pat takes over, making the introductions between you. “Everett and I grab a drink at the bar sometimes,” Pat offers.

“Oh, at Shades Bar?” you ask, remembering the name of Paterson’s favourite night-time haunt, and both men nod. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Everett,” you say, bringing a hand up to shield your eyes against the glary sunlight as it peers out from behind another cloud.

Everett opens his mouth to speak, but at that exact moment seems to realise what’s going on here. “That’s a fine spread you’ve got there,” he says, and when you start to offer him a scone he stops you with his hand. “I’ll-uh, I’ll leave you to it.” He smiles as he says it, genially enough, but Pat’s certain he’s going straight to Shades to tell Doc all about this.

“Good to see you,” Pat says in goodbye, eyeing him with a look that says, ‘don’t make a big deal about this’. Everett smiles and nods at you before he takes his leave, murmuring that he’ll see you around.

There’s a few beats of silence as you and Pat look over the Falls, recovering from the intrusion, each waiting to see if the other will speak first. It’s almost, just about to spill into an awkward length of silence, but saving it, you say, “So, Everett’s a nice guy,” just as Pat opens his mouth to speak.

“Yeah—yeah, he’s a good guy,” Pat replies, nodding slowly, considering whether to tell you about that night in the bar with Marie and the foam pellets, or the many lonely, messy nights where Everett helped Pat stumble home. “He’s been through a lot, you know, like everyone. But he’s… he’s fine. Doing better now. He’s a good guy.”

You gaze at Paterson’s profile, all strong nose and full lips and soft raven locks. “You’ve known each other for a while?”

“Oh, a time. Yeah,” Pat glances at you then back to the water, holding something back. “He has this thing he likes to say, when things are…” Pat trails off, but something tells you not to push him, to just let him get his thoughts out. Pat had a way of doing this sometimes, on the phone. You’d guessed he’d been avoiding saying something too personal, too painful—and rarely are they two different things.

After a pause, Paterson clears his throat and continues. “He’ll say, ‘the sun rises every morning and sets every evening’.”

You breathe a small appreciative laugh through your nose, struck by the simple droll truth of it. “Well, for now. So far, I mean.”

Pat is taken aback by this. It reminds him of something he once said, a way he once felt. “So far…” he echoes slowly, and you turn to look at him to find him already gazing at you. His stare is penetrating, looking right through you with those big brown eyes and slightly parted lips, making you shiver deep down inside.

“But, it’s simple… and sweet,” you say, not letting yourself get caught up in his handsome face and carrying on the conversation, “sometimes, the best wisdom is.”

A corner of Pat’s mouth ticks up in a small smile. “Wisdom… from Everett?” he raises his eyebrows, “maybe.” He sips his coffee, grabbing a scone.

“So, tell me true,” you sit up straighter, “how did Paterson come to live in Paterson, New Jersey?” you grab one of Pat’s little sandwiches, and say jokingly, “can’t believe I agreed to go on a date with a man and I don’t even know his full name. How have we managed to avoid this?”

Pat laughs throatily, his cheeks and eyes dimpling and creasing as you take a small bite, unable to stop yourself humming a small laugh along with him. “Well, I’ve lived here all my life,” he says, picking up another scone and lathering it with the saccharine raspberry mix. “‘Born and raised’ and all that.”

“Oh, that’s _right_ , you lived with your grandfather, right? Who was also named Paterson?” you ask, remembering something he’d told you the first day you’d met and not mentioned once since.

“Mm, Paterson…Hinchliffe,” Pat replies quietly, watching for your reaction. He rarely, almost _never_ tells anyone this. Usually, he doesn’t want the questions or the attention or the reminders of things lost and gone, but when you merely nod and take another bite, he decides to spill the beans. In this moment, maybe he just wants to impress you, he’s not sure. “Like the brewery, and the stadium,” he murmurs nonchalantly, and takes a huge mouthful out of the scone. It’s tasty, but he wishes he’d put cream on it too. He grabs one of the spare plastic picnic knives and reaches for some.

“Brewery? _Stadium?_ ” your voice rises in pitch as Paterson pops the rest of the scone into his mouth. “You’re going to sit there and eat your scone and just casually drop this on me? ‘Oh you know, just a small little stadium in the family’s name, a brewery, maybe, I don’t know’.”

Pat chuckles heartily, his cheeks flushing as he takes a sip of his coffee to mellow out the delicious sweetness the jam left on his palate. “I uh, yeah.” He glances at you and laughs all over again, the incredulous shock on your face getting the better of him. “My family, we’ve, well, the name’s been in this town for a while,” he clears his throat, “I don’t really, tell, many people about it.” He goes bashful, looking down and pretending to brush crumbs off his jeans, but you’re having none of it.

“Oh no no no, Mister, tell me the story. I know there’s a story, out with it. ‘Like the brewery’,” you try to mimic his voice, and Pat bursts out laughing again, his throat bobbing and eyes glinting merrily. His laugh is contagious, you giggle along with him.

Pat looks at you, your eyes sparkling, your smile lighting up your whole face in the way he’s called to mind every night since he saw you last. He chews his bottom lip for a moment, a pang of regret hitting him in the chest, before saying, “it doesn’t have a happy ending.”

“What doesn’t? Your story?”

“Mm,” Pat nods. He blinks a few times and looks down at the picnic mat, seriousness taking over his features like a mask. You know the smile that hides beneath it.

“Yet,” you say after a pause, and Pat glances up at your face. “Your story doesn’t have a happy ending, _yet_.”

In that moment, in that single instant, it’s almost overwhelming. The rush of warm feeling flooding into his chest is like the rushing freefall of a cascade, like hot sun bursting out from behind a murky cloud. He can’t bring himself to form words.

“It’s your dad’s dad, right? Where ‘Hinchliffe’ comes from?” you prompt him with a guess, to try and bring him out of his sullen silence. Now that he’s said it, you remember driving past a sports ground with that name on it—a run-down old thing on the other side of the river. But a brewery? You hadn’t seen—

“Yeah, my-uh, on my father’s side—,”

“So it’s your name too, right?”

He huffs, “right—,”

“So! See! It _is_ your story,” you grasp his hand in yours, impassioned, on instinct, and Pat’s heartbeat stutters, “so how do you know how it ends, hm? You’re right in the middle of it.”

Paterson gazes into your eyes, full of a hard determination, such a raw and unashamed trust in the certainty of possibility, of potential; but, a softness too, a hope. And all for him.

He swallows thickly, gripping your hand tighter. His gaze flicks down to your interlocked hands, then back up to your face. “You really want to hear it?” he asks softly, vulnerable.

You squeeze his hand and let go, smile, and chirp happily, “more than anything in this world!” You adjust to sit properly facing him, leaning on your right hand. Pat, opposite you, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, leans on his left.

He tries to hold back his smile at your eagerness. He grabs his coffee, takes a sip, and sighs contentedly. “Do you know much about Paterson?” he asks with one raised brow.

“Like, historically?”

“Mmhm,” Pat sips from his coffee cup again.

“Tell me about it like I don’t,” you say, hunting around for a slice of peach tart. Pat watches as you take a bite, then quickly reminds himself to look away from your lips, no matter how enticing the light dusting of caster sugar is, or the sight of your tongue as you lick it off as politely as you can manage.

“Paterson’s an old industrial town,” Pat starts, watching your face for disinterest or boredom and finding neither, “like, early 1800s, Alexander Hamilton kind of old.”

You hum, “there’s heaps of older-looking factories around.” You take another bite of the tart, trying not to focus too much on Paterson’s plush pink lips as he talks, but moreso on the words he says.

“Exactly,” Pat nods, “and those factories made all kinds of stuff: cotton, guns, steam trains, silk, plane engines—they even,” he huffs a small, short chuckle, “even called it ‘Silk City’ because of how much silk was made here.”

“’Silk City’,” you chuckle, “cute name for a manufacturing hub.”

Pat laughs, setting down his coffee and taking a bite from a little BLT sandwich. “Mm,” he hums with a full mouth, then, “and all powered by the Falls.” He gestures to the cascade.

“Oh, by hydroelectricity? Does it still work?”

“Oh yeah,” Pat nods seriously, “still powers homes today, for sure.”

“That’s incredible,” you breathe, looking out over the relentless rush of water, filled with that wistful nostalgia one feels when appreciating the lifetimes and generations something has stood for in the past, and will continue to stand for in the future. “After all this time,” you say quietly.

“This is my favourite place in all the city,” Pat matches your volume, his voice low, deep, as he too gazes out over the waterfall and gorge beneath it. “Sometimes I just think about, how many people, over how many hundreds of years, have all sat here and admired this. How this was here long before I was born and will be here long after I’m gone.”

You hum, agreeing with his sentiment. “It’s beautiful… in a relentless kind of way. Like time.”

Pat looks back to you, studying your face. “It is.”

You sigh, shaking off the contemplation and turning back to face him. “So where does your family fit in, Pat?”

Pat takes a sip of coffee, nodding knowingly. “Ah,” he sighs, “a man named John Darnley Hinchliffe, my great—,” he stops himself, looks up and squints for second, “great-great-grandfather—,”

“Great-great-great?” you laugh.

“Ahuh,” Pat hums, smiling, “it’s a little ways back, yeah—,”

“Alright, alright, like how far back?” you say, taking a sip from your coffee.

“Around the 1860s-ish,” Pat tilts his hand, as if to say, kinda-sorta.

“Ok, yeah.”

“He was the first to open a brewery here in Paterson, and he opened two, actually,” Pat continues on as you raise your brows in surprise, “the first one didn’t do so well but the second one—that one was successful. My great-great grandfather and his brothers ran it, and they made lager, stout, porter, IPA—,”

“Decent selection,” you smile at Pat, impressed, “all here in Paterson?”

“Yep,” Pat nods, “all right here in Paterson. Until Prohibition,” he adds quickly.

“Oh no, did they close?”

Pat gives you a dubious kind of half-smile. “Officially, yes. And it was a real shame too ‘cause they’d purpose-built this huge [brewery](https://www.flickr.com/photos/brookston/34727043516/in/dateposted/) around like twenty years earlier, ‘Hinchliffe Brewing and Malting Company’—,” he raises a brow.

“Fancy!” you interject.

“Thank you—emblazoned on the side. But no,” his voice goes serious again, “that officially closed in 1920. Which, you know, Prohibition, a couple years after World War I, it was a whole—,”

“Ah, yep.”

“—thing, yeah. One of the warehouses they built still stands, actually, on Governor Street. I can,” he stops himself, gulps, then barrels forward, “I can take you there, one day, if you’d like to see it. Well—what’s left of it.”

“Are you already asking me on another date?” you jest, and a gorgeous pinky-red flushes the tips of his cheeks and ears. You drop the humorous tone from your voice and say, “I’d love to see it, Pat. I’d love you to show me.” You smile at him softly, and Pat returns it, warmth and light blooming between his ribs.

After a moment, Pat continues. “But, you know, my great-great grandfather was mayor here for something like three terms, back-to-back. He was well-respected. He was the one who built the stadium… and then uh, you know—he had a son, and then _he_ had a son, and that guy was my grandpa. The first Paterson John Hinchliffe.”

The weight of Pat’s story makes you shake your head. “Your family is almost as old as this town,” you murmur quietly, and Pat shrugs softly, saying no more. “So, is that’s your dad’s name too, then? It’s a family tradition?” you ask, wanting to hear more, everything, anything you can about the man sitting across from you.

For a moment, a look ghosts over Pat’s features. Quietly, he says, “that was my dad’s name, yeah.”

 _Was?_ “Oh, I’m so sorry, Pat—,”

“Oh, no—no. It, was a long time ago.” Pat looks out over the Falls, swallowing, clenching his jaw a little.

“I see,” you reply, your voice gentle. Asking Paterson to dredge this up on your first date—

“They were in the city,” Pat blurts out. He decides to put it all out there, and get it over with quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. “They had tickets to see ‘The Phantom of the Opera’ on Broadway,” he smiles softly, then says, “my mother—Heather, was her name—she insisted that they drive…” and he trails off.

“’Heather’s a pretty name,” you say, sombre into the solemn silence.

Pat musters a sober smile at your effort. “Apparently, there was a crash ahead of them—you know the expressway, it’s wild, always has been.”

You hum, letting him continue.

“And,” Pat huffs out a heavy sigh, willing himself to just get through this next part, “the police said it looked like they’d stopped to help and, they were rear-ended. Smacked right into the crashed car in front of them.” Pat shakes his head quickly and takes a breath in through his nose, brushing the memory off and away. Quickly and quietly he says, “they were dead on impact,” and takes another sip from his coffee. It’s getting cold.

You let his words hang there for a moment, Pat’s throat clicking in the stillness. Even the wind is silenced. “How old were you?” you ask.

“Fifteen. I lived with Grandpa after that.”

You squeeze Pat’s hand. This was the unhappy ending you’d forced him to re-live—well, one of them, anyway. You remember, from the first day you met, that his grandfather has passed away too. “I’m sorry, for making you rummage around in your past like this. In the painful parts, I mean.”

Paterson grips your hand, firm and snug, and then releases, letting go. “I haven’t talked about them in a long-in a while. It’s good.” He swallows. “It’s good, even when I miss them… and you didn’t _make_ me _—_ ,” there’s a pause, and then he half-jokes, “God, sorry—bringing down the mood.” Paterson toys with the plastic lid of his coffee cup.

“Hey, no, that’s ok. Thank you for bringing me here, Pat, and telling me all of that.”

A subdued smile plays across his face. That wasn’t even the half of it—but, not today, the rest can wait. “Well, if you need a sad story—you know where to find me,” he chuckles. He was talking too much, and the realisation makes him uncomfortable. “What-uh, what about you? How did you end up here?” He’s entirely ready to believe you fell straight from Heaven into his life—but rationally he knows, there’s gotta be more to it than that.

“Oh, me?” you shuffle on the picnic blanket, taking a breath in as you glance out to the Falls and back. “How-uhm. Just approximately,” you huff a half-nervous laugh, “how much of your life story was that, so I know for scale?”

A huge smile threatens to break through Pat’s face. “How do I quantify that?” he asks, on the brink of laughter.

“Oh just, you know, percentage-wise.”

“Percentage-wise?” Pat raises his brows.

“Yeah,” you shrug, smiling.

“Like uh, let’s say-uh… a quarter, a third? Maybe? What’s that, 33 per cent?”

You stifle a laugh, “Precise, ok, great. I asked for that, I guess.”

“You-yeah-you did,” Pat chuckles, eyeing which of the sweets he’ll have next. It’s damn near miraculous how at ease you make him feel, and quickly, too.

You gaze at Paterson as he grabs another scone, smearing jam and cream on it. Breathing deep to settle yourself, you start with the basics.

Immediately, Pat is captivated.

You tell him your full name, and as much of its story as you can manage. You tell him how you came to live here, in Paterson, and open your shop. Pat asks questions, so many questions—about learning to run your own business, about living in Lakeview, about your favourite flower. He asks questions about your parents, and your family, and your home—some are easy, some are difficult, and he doesn’t push when you need him to back off, learning to read your face. He knows there are things you aren’t telling him, but that’s ok. There’s things he didn’t tell you. All in good time, though.

“But, you know,” you sigh, as Pat takes another bite of scone, “it’s still all so new. I haven’t really met many people I can spend time with. I haven’t made many… new friends.”

Paterson’s brow furrows for a moment as he chews. “Hey,” he gestures with his hand, “I know someone, well, she’s more like an acquaintance, but—she’s lovely. Marie,” he nods, indicating her name, “we catch up at the bar from time-to-time. We can go and I can introduce you, I think you’d like her.”

You smile slyly at him, and Paterson’s eyes flick over your face. “What?” he smiles back, amused but unsure. He eats another mouthful of scone, nervous that he’s said the wrong thing.

“Is that a _third_ date, now?” There’s a hint of teasing in your voice, but you’re only half-joking.

Paterson stifles a smile, glances down at the ground then back, almost looking up at you through his lashes. His voice is low, deep, filled with purpose, and he goes bold. “If you would like it to be.”

You’re lost in his eyes. Without thinking, you lean closer and wipe some smeared cream from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. “Oh—s-sorry—,”

“No—,” Pat’s breath catches over the word, and he quickly grasps your wrist—his fingers so warm—and presses his lips to your thumb, kissing away the tiny dab of cream.

You release a slow, shaky breath, and Paterson locks his brown—darker brown, now—eyes with yours.

His heart hammers in his chest as he murmurs over your soft skin, “may I kiss you?”

One heartbeat, two heartbeats, and you breathe your assent, the word ‘yes’ like a whisper of the cool wind.

Paterson leans in slowly, as you do too, and it’s clumsy at first: there’s no grace, no rhythm, no familiarity with each other’s body as you try to get closer. He closes in and you stop, you get closer and he stops, both trying to gauge how much or how little control to give to the other. But then—

Pat’s eyes close, his full, pink lips graze yours, and the kiss is tentative, slow, soft. His mouth lingers on yours, savouring the subtle purse of your lips and the hot exhale of breath from your nose. He breaks the kiss, leans away slightly, sees your eyes half-lidded. His licks at his plush pink bottom lip: you taste like a sugary, fruity glaze, with a hint of peach. Paterson tastes like raspberry jam. His gaze lingers on your dazed eyes for not a second longer: swiftly his hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his fingertips barely touching you—like he could break you, as if you were as fragile as a flower, or a dream—and his lips are on yours again, purposeful and deliberate and _sure of it_ this time, licking the sticky sweetness off your lips and, when you open your mouth to him with a sigh, tasting it on your tongue. The kiss is heady now, making your senses swirl with oozing warm delight, your body heating up and liquefying as you melt into him, grabbing hold of his arm to keep his big warm soft hand against your face, and Paterson sighs through his nose at your touch.

Too soon, the persistent alarm-like caws of a tanager bird creep into the edges of your focus. Slowly, gently, Paterson releases your mouth, your lips separating audibly. He’s still, you both are, panting softly into each other’s mouths, breathing each other’s air deep into your lungs. It feels like, maybe Pat’s holding himself back—and he is.

“Again,” your voice is a hoarse whisper, and fire licks up his spine at the sound of it. Emboldened, he replies, “another kiss, or another date?”

“Both,” you breathe, and press your lips to his. Paterson hums.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thanks to my friend Melanie (https://mellodywrites.tumblr.com/) for never giving up on Paterson. Together, some time ago, we made some head canons for his character--and without those initial musings I likely wouldn't have the ideas I have now. Thanks, Mel! xx
> 
> I hope you all like what I did with the whole, 'what is Paterson's last name?' conundrum. More about his past and his family will be uncovered in future chapters. This was only their first date after all! xx


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